


Goodbye...

by ShadowHaloedAngel



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M, Missing in Action, Secret Relationships, The need to say goodbye, drama/angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowHaloedAngel/pseuds/ShadowHaloedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing that even comes close to the nameless fear when you don't know if your lover is dead or alive, when you wave them goodbye and fight to ignore the traitorous voice whispering that you might never see them again. That fear can eat away at you, a low darkness deep in your gut which grows to overwhelm you, twisting so that you can't eat, can never quite relax, and laughing becomes a chore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye...

There's nothing that even comes close to the nameless fear when you don't know if your lover is dead or alive, when you wave them goodbye and fight to ignore the traitorous voice whispering that you might never see them again. That fear can eat away at you, a low darkness deep in your gut which grows to overwhelm you, twisting so that you can't eat, can never quite relax, and laughing becomes a chore.

They came from worlds which seemed so different on the surface: one the military hero, the great Red Elite, the second of ShinRa's three angels of death. He was an honest SOLDIER, an honourable man, a legend. If Genesis was a legend, then Tseng was a curse. He came, not from a world of honour and glory, but one of shadows and intrigue. What was often overlooked was that although one would have no qualms about stabbing you in the back, and the other never killed dishonourably, each could kill just as easily. The flame and the shadow, both wielded death with a deadly grace their enemies never had a chance to forget.

Although most expected them to be enemies, among the SOLDIER and the Turks there was at least a tacit acknowledgement of the similarities and uses of each department. A sort of grudging respect.

The similarities were never as obvious as when either of them had a mission. The redhead was never shy about his emotion, and given the nature of Tseng's job – the dirty work, the subterfuge, the ever-present hidden risk – the assumption was always that the crimson general was the more worried of the partners, and, indeed, the one with most reason to worry. Genesis was easy to read. More often than not, Tseng's life depended upon being emotionless, upon wearing a mask so flawless that no one realised there was anything beneath it to read at all. The Turks knew better.

The Turks, /his/ Turks, worked with him day in, day out. They could read him. They had learned to read each other, and how to conceal from the rest of the world. All of the Turks knew when Genesis was fighting on a campaign. It showed in the little things. It showed in the hours he worked – the early mornings and the late, late nights which grew steadily closer together until he never went home; it showed in the smell of his shampoo in the showers where he didn't leave the office; it showed in the shorter temper and the quicker forgiveness; it showed in the slight crease in the middle of his forehead as he waited for his phone to ring. People forgot that glory and danger went hand in hand in war.

When their relationship began, they had said goodbye every time, had taken each night before as if it was their last night together. Time had passed, and they had slowly fallen out of the habit, desperation growing to do nothing to jeopardise their suspiciously good luck. Their farewell was in the heated kisses under the grey sky of the early morning, and the lingering touch of leather-gloved fingers against pale skin. They never said goodbye anymore.

Of course, the day came when they wished they had. The day came when the official announcement was made over the tannoy throughout ShinRa, the update on the campaign in Wutai. The list of victories, and then the list of those newly dead, or missing. The whole building fell silent, not least the Turk floor, where they understood respect for the dead. In a job where there was little respect at all, and life was lived in the filth of human nature, things like that were important. They had almost started to breathe again, before the final mechanical rattle of the speakers "and General Rhapsados is missing in action, presumed dead."

The silence in the Turks office was suddenly absolute, stifling, as every pair of eyes turned slowly to the Director's door.

Turks were not known for their emotional stability. They were complicated, and almost impossible to read, to understand. Eventually, the silence was broken by the redhead who spoke for them all.

"...Shit."

Although they would never admit it, there were strong loyalties in the Turks. Once a Turk, always a Turk, after all. It may have been like herding cats, but under a strong leader, a good leader, the department was at its best. There was nobody ready to take Tseng's place.

The day went on, and the blue suits continued their work, glancing up at the door, listening intently, waiting for some kind of reaction, but it got to quitting time, and there was still nothing. Slowly, reluctantly, each of them left the office, shooting glances at each other. It was Reno, of course, who was the one to disturb the silence, to trespass on that dignified grief. He knocked, once, a brief courtesy, before yanking the door open, and sticking his head through the gap. He looked at the figure in semi-darkness, sitting, unmoving, behind the desk. Tseng did not make eye contact. He didn't want to see the pity in Reno's eyes. When the man spoke, his voice was soft, almost unusually gentle.

"Yo boss-man... you want me to shut off the lights out here or leave 'em for ya?"

A moment of silence again, before the slight shift, the rustle of fabric, and the reply.

"Turn them off. There is no point in wasting power."

Reno watched for a long moment, wondering whether to reply, but then nodded, and pulled the door closed behind him with a shake of his head.

Life went on. It always did. Weakness was not permitted in the Turks. Weakness led to sloppiness, and to death, so more often than not, they cut out the middle man.

There could be no cause for complaint about Tseng's behaviour. He was reasonably dressed, and meticulous in his work. The Turks, however, noticed the change. He was colder now, even more emotionless than he had been before, and he didn't smile. No-one saw him leave the office these days, outside of missions, and the Turks saw /everything/. They were worried.

It had been six months now, and it was approaching Solstice, and although everyone else had seemingly forgotten and moved on, Tseng felt in some sort of limbo. He could have dealt with it if there had been confirmation, but instead, Genesis was only /presumed/ dead. There was no proof. No body. There was perpetual, painful hope, like a knife in his heart.

One night, a bitterly cold night in December, Tseng went home early. He had conceded, just this once, to an order, or at least, a forcible suggestion, from his superior. It has to be said that by 'going home early', what is meant is 'leaving with everyone else'. Rather than sitting in his office, doing some of the volume of administration he had created to fill the voice, he was facing nothing now but the peaceful oblivion of sleep, with a tumbler of whisky in his hand.

Some hours later, there was a knock at the door. He was still sober enough to answer it, and so, reluctantly, Tseng got to his feet and went to investigate. He opened the door, and the glass shattered on the hardwood floor.

It was Genesis who stepped forward, Genesis who closed the distance between them, and who brushed leather-clad fingers over warm skin.

"I never said goodbye..." he whispered, and, with that, Tseng knew he had returned.


End file.
